Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Tomorrow night, I will see my husband again for the first time in 3 weeks.

I know that there are happily married couples all over the world, who because of work or family or other myriad reasons spend months and years apart. I am not one of those people. But my husband, apparently, is A-OK with it. He should totally apply for some job at the North Pole or some other equally remote and high-paying gig, because clearly, he's not suffering like I am. Who knew? In my excitement to finally see him, I am driving 3 hours during rush hour traffic (so probably more like 4 or maybe 5 hours, honestly) to get to him as early as possible, and booking a hotel room for a night of romance.......and he is driving back and forth to Home Depot and probably wishing he had a few more days at home to get this fence done right.

I am not a huge proponent of hot and heavy phone calls, but I have to admit that when things get desperate just maybe having someone talk about how much they want to see you, and perhaps all of the terribly filthy things they are going to do to you when they DO see you would be kind of......nice. So last night, I was finally alone for a few minutes and he was home and actually answered his phone, and I was all "I can't wait to get my hands on you. I am going to wear some tiny and vaguely obscene thong to come pick you up and if you are into it we can just pull over on the side of the Long Island Expressway."

And he said "That's great, but I really have to go finish putting up this fence."

......... ?

Wow. That's hot. I tried to go with it. I tried to be all "Honey, you are THE MAN and I can't wait to see that fence you are putting up and it is just so awesome and so manly of you to renovate the house and build a fence while I was gone, you know, using physical labor to release all of the sexual tension that you must have bubbling up inside you" what I was really thinking was "I am totally wearing granny panties to pick you up tomorrow."

But today, we reached a new low on the enthusiasm scale. I have tried to call him 3 or 4 times about last minute things I would like him to bring, and he's not even answering the PHONE any more. He's probably back at Home Depot, getting wood cut and buying more nails. Hot.

Considering the fact that the drive TO Virginia involved the bumper detaching itself from my rental car in the first hour, my bar in terms of a successful roadtrip is, admittedly, very low.

The bumper stayed on my car, ergo it was already a highly successful endeavor.

The entire rest of the ride was a complete shit show.

The first issue - and the biggest, in terms of our drive - was that my 84 year old grandmother doesn't care for Glenda. "How does that thing work?" she demanded multiple times. And then she would immediately follow that up with, "It doesn't make any SENSE that thing. She is telling you to go the wrong way." At which point I would turn and say "I have no idea where I am, but if you know how to get where we are going, then BY ALL MEANS please enlighten me."

So then she would say, her disgust JUST BARELY VEILED, "Well, you want to turn that way, of course" gesturing in a general direction. And so I would dutifully follow my grandmother's direction, because the woman has been driving way longer then I have and I am certainly not going to second guess her.

And then we would drive a few miles down the road and she would immediately begin backtracking. "Hm. This doesn't look familiar. You should stop and ask directions." she would say, with the clear insinuation that I had gotten us into this mess.

It happened 3 times before we got out of Maryland.

I spent a good deal of time re-routing and trying to figure out where I was, and driving by exits because someone was asking me something when I was supposed to be trying to read signs. And when the 5 year old piped up and started putting her two cents in "This doesn't look right, mama" I pulled over. "What are you doing now?" my grandmother snapped. "Where are we going?"

"Everyone is going to have to stop talking now." I declared.
I might have been a bit shrill, actually.
"I am going to do exactly what the GPS tells me to. If it takes a little longer, that's OK. It will get us there, eventually. I don't want any more questions about where we are, or where we are going, or what state or town we are in, or what direction we are going, or what road we are getting on next, or when we are going to get there. I DON'T KNOW. I am listening to this little box, that works by magic. I need you to stop correcting and questioning me. I am starting to LOSE MY SHIT."

The silence? Was deafening.
For the rest of the ride, I tried to remain upbeat. My grandmother sat next to me quietly, carefully folding little pleats in her skirt. We had a few short conversations, but for the most part we were Not Speaking.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Tomorrow I am sitting my ass back down in the driver's seat, pointing the car north, turning on my beloved Glenda, and tuning out.

It's called Survival, and it's not just a TV show.

I have to get these people (um, I mean, my beloved grandmother and my two precious children) from Virginia to Rhode Island tomorrow, without hitting anyone or anything, and without leaving anyone at a rest stop.

I gotta be honest with you: I'm not feeling very confident.

So tonight, I went to Target (the "t" is silent here in paradise, I'm a fucking francophile when it comes to my retail) and stocked up on all the necessary supplies:
Chips Ahoy
String Cheese
Bubbly water
Iced Tea
Ham
Crack. I MEAN CRACKERS. Goldfish crackers (2 kinds, because I am all about choices)

So tomorrow, bright and early, please think of me. Please think of me, stuck in a small metal box, with the sun beating down, listening to non-stop inane chatter about a bunch of bullshit I seriously could not care less about, letting my grandmother tell me where to go and how fast to drive and how many miles we have driven and how many miles we have left and where the closest bathroom is and how to get the best gas mileage and why my cousins are so awesome, and pulling over to send threats in the general direction of the backseat (or possibly, the passenger seat, but for god's sake the woman is 84, let's show some respect.)

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Hey, don't call the suicide hotline or anything, it's all cool. That last post there......wow, huh?
Someone needs some therapy or something, GOOD GRAVY.

Move along, nothing to see here. Just the unemployed and the bewildered talking. And maybe a little too much Southern Comfort. Or something.

Man I need a job. If only so that I have new material to write about.
I'm starting to run low on anecdotes. I need to redirect my posting to topics that are more positive and uplifting and inspirational.

We were talking about people my age who are very successful professionally. And my anecdotes all had to do with "that night that we had a huge event and I worked until 4am and made a few hundred dollars." Pretty fucking impressive, huh? A professional highlight of mine. Never mind being the vice-president of some major corporation, or a published author, or a doctor or lawyer or indian chief. Hell no, Daffodil keeps it real. Remember that time that I booked a honeymoon for that one couple? Yeah, that sounded like an awesome itinerary. I have a career all right - I live vicariously through others.

Here I am, 35 years old, Happily married, 2 great kids, the house and the yard and the picket fence (really!) living on Maui and loving it...........sort of. Living the dream, right? Wooooohooooo.

This is, by any measure, not where I thought I would be in my life.
I am surrounded by over-achievers. Friends and relatives with careers and salaries to match. And they have the husbands and the kids and the picket fence too (unless they are whooping it up in some glamorous urban-chic loft somewhere, or rocking the acreage, with a pool and all that comes with country living.

And I am waiting tables and writing a blog.

Am I happy? Yeah, sure. Of course. I have love, I have health, I have a roof over my head and shoes on my feet and food in my belly.

Am I satisfied? Fuck No.

I am, in fact, exactly where I was when I graduated from high school. I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. And even if I figured it out, I am pretty sure that between my rapidly approaching middle age, my lack of a degree, and my location somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, I may be Shit Outta Luck.

What the FUCK am I going to do with myself?

With both kids off to school this fall, and everyone else my age getting their shit together, I really need to get crack-a-lackin. If only I knew what it was I wanted to do, and if only I had the money to do it.

If only. I am RSVPing for my life - regrets only, tonight, apparently.

It is easier to face my life's work (or distinct lack thereof) with my beloved sidekick. But Sam is still on Maui, and I am here.......with a lot of time to think about what I have accomplished in life and where I am headed, and a lot of time to think about how shitty I feel about my accomplishments thus far. A few years ago my mother told me that my nursery school teacher was disappointed to hear that I hadn't done more with my life. It was the first I had heard of my underachiever status.

Why didn't you tell me? I had NO IDEA.

So, now that I know I have no prospects for any sort of professional career unless I come up with some capital (or get really good at forgery so I can whip up a few MBAs and MDs and PhDs for my walls) what do I do now?

What am I going to DO?

What the fuck, Daffodil. Let's go to bed and listen to depressing music and contemplate my lot in life. And then tomorrow will be another day and I can wake up refreshed and renewed and maybe even inspired.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

For the last two days, all I have been able to talk about, and think about, is the glory that is central air conditioning.

I have never lived in a house with A/C, and never much cared for it - but once you experience a few hours of the Virginia summer heat you quickly learn to appreciate how wonderful and miraculous it is.

So ever since I arrived at my uncle's house here in the moutains of Northern VA, I have been happily ensconsed in cool air. Not a drop of sweat, not a moment of discomfort related to the air outside. And it is lovely.

But then, last night, IT GOT BETTER.

I was standing in the bathroom, enjoying the nice fresh cool air as I brushed my teeth, and noticed something.
My feet? They were warm.
On the bottom.
The stone floor - the gorgeous stone floor (everything is gorgeous here) - was.......warm.

Oh my fucking god they have radiant heat floors.

So I did what ANYONE ELSE WOULD DO and I stripped down completely naked and lay on the floor. You know, just to be sure.

Yup, warm. The floor was warm.

I moved into my bedroom and lay back down next to one of the gorgeous rugs, directly on the tile.

Warm.

I lay there, on the stone, basking in the warmth. But it was warmer in the bathroom.
So I got up and trotted into the living room for further comparisons. Still warm. But not as warm as the bathroom. Plus, STILL NAKED. So I went back to the bathroom.

I am not going to lie to you. I considered sleeping in there, next to the tub. For the first time in my life, I was going to sleep on the bathroom floor on purpose - not because I needed to or because I had no choice in the matter........but because I wanted to.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Today I drove to Virginia from Rhode Island. We know I have poor judgement, so no one should be surprised that in addition to voluntarily driving 8 hours in 100 degree heat with my two children, I also brought along my 86 year old grandmother. And Glenda. Of course.

It all started so well. I woke up in a room that must have been 80 degrees, the air so hot and sticky and still that I could barely breathe. It was the absolute definition of stifling. As in, if you looked up "stifling" in the dictionary, there would be a picture of that little room up under the eaves of my mom's house. It was really, really bad. I got out of bed and went in search of some fresh air and a shower. I raced up the hill to the rental car agency and picked up what they call an "intermediate" and what I call "you must be smoking crack that's a compact". As I drove away I noticed a strange noise. It didn't sound mechanical.....it was just a weird noise.
Hm.
I stopped the car, and opened the window. Ugh. Heat. Humid heat. Hot humid heat. Can't breathe. Blegh. Fuck. I start to drive and don't hear the noise. I stop for coffee and there, wait, what was that? A noise? Hm. no. But wait, yes. That was a noise.

Now I am aggavated and sweaty, so I call the rental desk and tell them I hear a noise. They don't have any other cars. I need to leave, so I tell them I'll call if I have a problem. And I pick up my kids and get all of the luggage in the teeny tiny sub-compact bullshit "intermediate" car that may or not be making a funny noise. My son hands me a CD my mom just gave him, and I press play.

My parents stand on the sidewalk waving goodbye as "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" blares out of the speakers. The Stones. How apropos. I roll my eyes. My parents smile. I make sure I packed the bottle of Southern Comfort and we hit the road. And then we sit in traffic. And THEN we go.

We pull up to my grandmother's house and load the trunk with her stuff (which is the same amount of stuff as I brought for all three of us put together. Gee it's a good thing I rented this "intermediate" sized automobile. I'm sitting in her driveway typing the address into Glenda, who immediately starts telling me where to go.

"Will she" my grandmother asks with a raised eyebrow, gesturing at the GPS "be talking all the way to Virginia?"

Great. Gramma hates Glenda. This is going to be awesome.

We finally get on the highway a full hour later then I had intended, and we're cruising along. If the car is making a noise, I can't hear it over the Stones. And then I glance in my side mirror and slam on the brakes.

The bumper is hanging off the back of the car, flapping in the wind as we cruise along at 70 mph.

I cut across traffic and find a break in the guardrail so I can pull onto the grass. Gramma is not amused.
"What are you doing? she shrieks. "You can't get out of the car on the highway - you'll get run over."

"Well, I can't drive along with the bumper dragging on the ground either."

I got the plastic snapped back into place and drive down the highway to the next exit. I get off and call the rental agency. "Hey. I figured out what that noise was!" The bumper was already detached from the car again and it was 96 degrees in the shade. I was, to put it mildly, a bit angry.

An hour later we are back on the road in a new rental. Then everyone decides they are hingry, so we stop and eat. Then we need a potty break, so we stop for that too. As I was walking towards the ladies room, I was following a man dressed as a woman. Or maybe it was a woman who used to be a man, I can't be sure what his/her status was. And when we got the the restrooms, girlfriend walked right in the door marked ladies, even though she was rocking a serious 5 o'clock shadow at 11am.

I couldn't help it, I had to look. Yes Virginia, she did sit down to use the potty. I was fully expecting her pretty purple toes to be pointing towards the toilet, but she chose to keep it real.

Excellent.

After all of the excitement of the morning, it was about 12:30. 3 hours on the road, and I was about 30 miles from my mother's house.

I decided to get serious. "I am not stopping again for a long time" I announced.

We got back on the highway and continued south. My grandmother was regaling me with a tale of her last train ride, wherein two college boys had a lengthy and loud discussion about which girls on campus gave the best blow jobs.

Let me just stop right here and say that if you ever wonder why I am the way I am, I think we can safely say that the apple fell directly under the tree.

As the story went on, and my grandmother repeated the words "blow job" over and over again, the sun went away, the temperature dropped, and a huge bolt of lightening shot across the road in front of me. God was punishing me for talking about blow jobs with my gramma. I was starting to envision the movie "Vacation" where they end up tying Aunt Edna to the roof in a lawn chair. It went from gray to black. Huge fat drops of rain started pounding the windshield. The wind picked up. Branches and leaves were flying. The air was electric. We slowed to a crawl, everyone with their hazards on. Finally I pulled over to wait it out. Lucy was hysterical. Max was focused on his video game. And my grandmother was still talking.

I started driving again as the rain let up - there were downed branches all over the road and standing water on the asphalt, so I was driving carefully, until another bout of bad weather finally forced me to get off the highway completely. I rolled into a service plaza and pulled up to a gas pump. Finally, my grandmother stopped talking about blowjobs, and went to find a bathroom.

When she came back we set off again, and the weather cleared up quickly. As we buzzed towards Virginia, she said "It's a good thing I didn't bring that half bottle of wine in my fridge. I would have finished it by now."

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

I was really hoping that today I would be able to avoid a shower. It is so humid here that my hair only dried this afternoon from yesterday's shampoo. It's going to start getting moldy if this weather keeps up.

The last few days have been pretty uneventful: seeing some great friends, eating, sleeping, writing, reading and sitting on the beach I grew up sitting on, while the kids swam between the buoys and dug in the grainy New England sand.

Everything here is so similar to life at home on Maui, and yet so very different.

The weather is warm - but sticky.
There's an ocean - but it's cold. DAMN cold.
The sand is rocky, the wind is cold and damp, the houses are old and rambling, we are seeing friends that I have known since my childhood - but now we all have kids, so the dynamic is totally different.

We spent this afternoon at the beach, and it was like a snapshot from my own childhood. Except I WAS NOT THE CHILD. It was seriously fucked up to be riding my bike around the beach, in my bathingsuit, with my towels and my salty hair, and instead of shouting things like "Let's stop for a Slushpuppy!" I was shouting "Get the hell out of the middle of the road before someone runs you over JESUS CHRIST!"

It was way less relaxing. Plus, I couldn't smoke a cigarette on the beach, which is pretty much completely against all that is right and good on a cellular level. I was almost twitching. And after that bike ride, man, I really needed a cigarette. As my girlfriend and I grimly rode back towards home, she announced that she would be carrying a flask from now on.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Today I went in search of an Italian Grinder ("grindah"). My first attempt was disappointing, but I will try try again. It has to have the perfect combination of salami and ham, oil and vinegar, salt and pepper. This one missed it by a mile. So I guess I'll just have to keep eating processed meats until someone gets it right, dammit.

In the meantime, I decided to go roller skating. You know, to work off the grindah. I put on a pair of hotpants and then took them back off again because I thought that maybe this little town wasn't QUITE ready for a middle aged chick in red underpants roller skating around their neighborhood in circles.

(sigh)

So then I put on some shorts (which, to be honest, were not much bigger then the hot pants) and strapped on the skates, and tried to hit the road. But the road ? Was very bumpy. This isn't a euphamism - the pavement was in such terrible shape that my teeth were rattling.

And that was on the basketball court.

So I staggered up the hill out of the schoolyard and went in search of a surface that was actually skate-able. I finally found an area of relatively smooth asphalt, and started skating. And almost as soon as I had hit stride, I heard the shouts.

This would have been way less obnoxious had I been wearing rollerblades. But as Jersey said at one practice, roller girls are gay enough without rollerblades. I believe she was referring to our team members' sexual orientation rather then the actual sport of roller derby when she made that comment, but the point was a good one.

So I went to stop, in order to clear up their significant confusion about roller BLADES v.s. roller SKATES. And I couldn't.

I was headed downhill, and I kept trying and trying. I snowplowed and t-stopped and even tried that damn tomahawk (which is ILL ADVISED ON A DOWNWARD SLOPE - NOTE TO SELF DO NOT TRY NEW SHIT WHEN YOU ARE PICKING UP SPEED) which ony managed to slow me down by sending my headfirst into a bush. (And that isn't a euphamism either. While many rollergirls are indeed gay, I am not, and haven't found myself facefirst in a bush before today. Not even that one time in college.)

So I decided that I would just have to straighten out those little bastards later, and I left the area (despite my best efforts to stay put). I rolled back to the park, and picked up the kids and my mom where I had last seen them. We all headed towards home, with me muttering about "fucking rollerblade pieces of shit" and trying to figure out why I hadn't nailed the tomahawk even though I thought I had finally figured it out.

And that's when I realized. Sometime during my search for better pavement, my toe stop had come off of my skate. So when I tried to tomahawk and I went flying off into the bushes? It was because only one stopper had engaged.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

I am lying in bed with Lucy, listening to an insipid pop station and waiting for her to pass out so I can turn on NPR and chill the fuck out. We had a long day, I am in a terrible mood, and I am ready to crash and burn. In the meantime, I gotta digest. Today I experienced the Holy Trinity of Rhode Island junk food (at least, in my opinion):
Fried Dough
Homemade Peach Ice Cream
Dunkin Donuts
As you can see, it's been a real red letter day in terms of my food consumption, and between the junk food I was snacking on peppers stuffed with prociutto and mozzarella, inhaling chopped pasta salad and slices of pizza, and throwing in a few slices of soupy here and there. After all, I am in the motherland. As much as Rhode Island embraces, nay rejoices in it's Italian heritage, I spend my time here in a haze of "....When in Rome...." situations - especially where food and beverage is concerned. And I'm not holding back, let me tell ya.

My stepdad returned from a golfing trip today and was disappointed to hear that I went to the local dive bar without him. He's pretty sure he knew the guy that had such an aversion to onion rings, and now dad wants to go back with me so I can point him out. I'm not sure if I want to take the father-daughter bonding thing quite that far. If I wasn't getting funny looks the first time, I'm pretty sure returning to the scene with my dad would seal the deal. He said that our local bar crawl itinerary had a glaring omission, and suggested another dive we could go check out. Since the man doesn't drink anything stronger then Diet Coke, I know that - at the very least - I would have a designated driver. Don't think I'm not considering it. I would totally pick up his tab.

I'm here, at my mother's house, with old friends and lots of family, going from barbecue to pool party to beach to Dairy Queen, with two kids in tow (along with an SUV packed with all of the summertime essentials of beach toys and towels and hats and sunblock and a bottle of Southern Comfort - don't judge me). We are usually rolling with another carload of kids (breeders tend to travel in packs) so that at the very least everyone has a playmate and I have another adult to talk to when we get wherever the hell we are going. I am busy and distracted and exhausted and worried about money and vaguely hung-over. He is alone, in paradise, with a lot of free time and no mother to keep track of his comings and goings. A fact that has not been lost on me, but which has not caused me a moment of concern. You see, my husband and I have an understanding.

We're hot for each other.

I think he's hot. But more than that, I think he's wonderful. I think - no, I KNOW - that he is the best thing that ever happened to me. Without him, I would be a shadow of the person that I am now. When we met, I was miserable and insecure. His love - an undying devotion, really - enabled me to trust in love for the very first time. And our relationship has withstood the tests of time and distance over the years, without faltering.

During the course of our marriage, we have tested the bond. He's been in a band playing out in bars until all hours, while I was home with the kids. He works places where he cannot have a cellphone, and so each day we are seperated with very minimal communication for 12-13 hours at a stretch. And he's you know, hot. Every so often, I have a pang of concern - usually when I notice that some OTHER WOMAN has noticed my darling husband, and has perhaps showed a bit of interest. But these days it's rare. I always get a very warm reception from my husband, and he makes a super-human effort to keep me sane and supported and encouraged in every endeavor. Thank god he finds unemployment and mediocre housekeeping skills so appealing.

I know that a lot of other people don't have this. I know that many people worry when their spouse is out with someone of the opposite sex, no matter how innocuous the circumstances. Sometimes it is unfounded insecurity and sometimes they are feeling guilt about their own choices and feelings, and then sometimes they have good reason to be worried. I fall firmly into the first category - a life-long belief that I am not good enough, despite my husband's attempts to prove me wrong.

This is not all written to prove that I am a Pollyanna. I am fully able to recognize and appreciate an attractive man. Even, dare I say it, feel an attraction towards him. I am human, after all. But I have never been tempted to take it further than simply acknowledging that other men and women exist, and that they can be appealing. Nice to look at, wonderful to talk to, but no touchy-touchy. And as far as I know, my husband feels the same way. And I think that because we have such a good relationship (in every way, thank you very much) we are able to relax and appreciate being around other men and women, knowing full well that the only one we really want is each other.

Have I mentioned that he's hot? I may have covered that. Even lesbians think he's hot.

Maybe someday I will regret being so blind and so faithful and so trusting. I have seen marriages implode with incredible force and very little warning. I am not stupid. I know that things happen in relationships that are beyond the control of common sense and decency. But I truly believe, in my heart, that his sense of honor - having given his word in front of our families and friends to remain faithful and true - will prevail over some fine young thing (or lovely middle-aged thing for that matter).

I'm not worried. And I'm not looking. When you know that you have that love and devotion in your life you don't need to shop around. A love that is that true deserves a lot of respect. I know I have the complete package. He's not here right now, but he'll be back. And I'll be waiting.

Friday, June 18, 2010

We have been away from home for a week, It seems like a very long time.

In the days that have passed since we left Maui, two things are happening:

I am desperately missing my husband (which happens every time we do one of these trips where I stay longer then he does so the kids can spend more time with family).

I am running around like a lunatic, with something planned for every day.

As a result of these two issues, I am spending a good chunk of every day in the car, on speakerphone, either talking to my poor husband as the children shout in the background, or getting directions on how to get to our next stop.

I also broke down and used my mother's GPS for the first time yesterday. I think I may be the last person on planet earth to use a GPS, and I resisted as long as I could. After all, I live on an island with, like, 3 roads on it, and they all start with H and have 14 vowels. A GPS would be useless. Or so I thought.

For the first 15 minutes, I was so fucking annoyed by that uptight british accent telling me to turn left that I almost threw it out the window on the exit ramp. But then I actually got lost, and damned if it didn't give me directions on how to find the closest Dunkin Donuts so I could get my head straight and carry on. So even if I ONLY use the GPS for Dunkin Donut runs, I am totally keeping this thing front and center on my dashboard. Her name is Glenda, and once you get to know her, she really grows on you. And the accent? Kind of hot.

Yesterday we drove almost completely around the state of Connecticut courtesy of Glenda the Fabulous, and ended up having an impromptu sleepover at a friends house. It is probably hard for the kids, to be so completely detached from any routine. But the alternative is to sit in my mother's living room watching her cats. I imagine I'll do plenty of that in about 50 years, so I am trying like hell to find something - anything - else to fill my time.

Thank god, I have a lot of friends to hang out with. And none of them seem to have cats.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

I have mentioned this before, and I am not sure if it is a universal truth, but when I go home to my mother's I regress. I find myself repeating familiar behaviors, reminicent of my 20 year old self.

My 20 year old self had some self-esteem issues, a broken heart, and a bit of a drinking problem.

I was living at home, working in a bar, staying up late and sleeping in. I fall right back in to the same schedule (without the work commitments) as soon as I put down my suitcase. In addition to getting all of my laundry done for me, and having all of my food prepared for me, I also always get in the car to find a full tank of gas. Excellent. So last night, I got in my mom's car, and started driving. I picked up my best friend's husband, who is also here with the kids and without a spouse, and who ALSO left his kids with grandma, and we began. The big difference between the 20 year old me and the grown-up me, is that I pace myself. Slow and steady might not win the race, but it may keep me from throwing up in the bushes. We went from bar to bar, cheerfully having a beer at every stop except for one very misguided decision to have a mango mojito. (And VOILA - bushes.) We watched volleyball at one bar, and at another neighborhood dive a nice old man told me that he would hit on me, except that I was eating onion rings and for him THAT was a deal breaker. I didn't tell him that I would have cut him off long before the onions would be an issue, instead I solemnly informed him that I would make better choices the next time we sat together at a bar. He considered that for a moment, and then offered to hold his breath. "I only need about 3 minutes" he explained.

And that was our cue to leave.

When I walked in the door to my mother's house at 1am, she was waiting up. Just like old times. I gave her the rundown of where I had been, and what I had to drink, and which bush would need to be hosed off in the morning. She supervised me as I took the kids to the bathroom and tried to get into bed without falling over. Because usually, I totally fall over.

An interesting note - not only did I not get carded once, not even ONE TIME, but my friend's husband? Totally did.
Just call me Mrs Robinson.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

So since I am here and not there for the next month, I gotta figure out some way to make cash that does not involve responding to ominous and/or creepy craigslist ads that begin with "model needed".

Slim Pickings.

But I have hopes that I will get some work and with it some work experience, while I try to figure out what I want to be when I grow up and go back to my real life. I do have one, you know.

I'm already missing my husband, because he is awesome and also cuddly. Lucy is cuddly but she is sort of over-cuddly with a lot of neck hugging and mouth breathing. Max doesn't cuddle, plus he's always sort of sweaty and gross and he tends towards sudden movement which always involves me wincing and ducking and telling him to knock it off.

And I miss my friends and my house and my car and my dog but today pretty much as soon as I was able to function we went and had lunch and it was great and good and suddenly I didn't feel so far away from everything that is familiar. We sat in the warm sunshine with our friends who are from Maui but also from here which is so convenient, and we sat there right on the river and watched the boats and ate burgers and then went to the playground and let the kids run wild because they deserved it -mine after 5 days of travel and three weeks away from these children - their fremily, as we say on the island; and theirs because they miss their mama and the familiar faces of their island home that isn't their home any more. Two worlds collided in that little grassy playground, and exploded in giggles and shouting and maybe a few handfuls of mulch but I can't confirm or deny that.

I may have to stop while I write this, to physically hold my eyelids open.

2 red-eye flights in 4 days is a bad idea. 2 red eye flights with small children over 6 time zones in 4 days is a terrible idea. Expecting children that have flown on 2 red eye flights and through 6 time zones to sleep in different and strange places every night? Is the stupidest fucking idea I have ever come up with.

I am a moron.

So now I am getting mine. Payback is such a bitch. It's not that the kids are being unpleasant - given the circumstances, they are positively angelic. But me? I'm miserable.

I'm all sweaty and chilled and headachy and aggravated and disoriented and I got lost trying to drive back to my mom's house after meeting friends for lunch. I never get lost. Ever. And the single parenting thing is already driving me to drink. I had a 4 hour layover last night in LAX before our midnight flight ot the East Coast, and we spent 2 of those hours in the California Pizza Kitchen Express, where I ordered a Jack and Coke and the waitress took one look at me and brought a double. I would have been offended, had I not been weeping with gratitude.

Tonight I am climbing into bed as early as I can, leaving my mother to handle dinner. I'm curling up into a tiny ball, and sleeping long and hard. Because I may be a moron, but I'm no fool.

Monday, June 14, 2010

While I have been without the internets I have been quietly tapping away on Wordpad, saving a bit here and there. I didn't want you to miss a moment.

Now I am in a crowded coffeeshop huddled over a too-small table while my children fight over a game of tic tac toe and I attempt to post all of the little bits and bobs I have been squirreling away. See how much I care?

2 full days in a beautiful city apartment with downstairs neighbors has driven me to drink. I wish I could say that after 9 years of parenting, I would be a little more laid back about my kids and small spaces - but I'm not. In fact, I think that as they are getting older (and louder and heavier and more capable of really STOMPING around and making some fucking noise) I am getting more uptight. My jaw has become locked in this clenched position, through which I can hiss threats of immediate extinction - because by the time my son has thrown himself down face first on the air mattress in the 100th attempt to (as far as I can figure) POP IT, I am about ready to throw him out these gorgeous 6 foot windows and onto the street below. Let's see you bounce off THAT, buster.

But at the same time, in between bouts of being THE MOST OBNOXIOUS CHILDREN ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET come the moments of absolute sweetness, where my daughter snuggles up next to me in the booth as I finish up half a pitcher of sangria (that I needed in order to get through the rest of our day without crying - hey, don't judge, it's got FRUIT in it and shit) and asks me sweetly if we can go home and cuddle because she would like to take a nice rest. Or when my son offers to carry a bag because "that looks awfully heavy mama, and I am very strong you know." Those are the moments when I relax and enjoy being with them and introducing them to people and I don't cringe at the thought if having them in someone else's home for more then 5 minutes.

It is as though their survival instinct kicks in, and they know that if they don't get it together and behave like the lovely children that I raised, that I might just leave them on the floor under the booth THAT I TOLD THEM TO GET OUT FROM UNDER RIGHT THIS DAMN MINUTE. (deep breath)More sangria please.

I am sitting here in an apartment in San Francisco, sucking on a caramel macchiato, trying to find an unlocked wireless internet account somewhere in this neighborhood. But apparently, unlike our little country town, people in the big city keep their wireless internet locked up tight.

Greedy bastards.

After an exceptionally long day of travel and fun yesterday, which involved about 7 hours of sleep in 3 days, an airplane, numerous shuttle buses and a few moments of panic here and there, we slept until 10am this morning - which was both miraculous and desperately needed. We took our time, ventured out into the neighborhood for coffee, and then headed down to Fisherman's Wharf to walk and gawk. Right out of the gate, caffeine in hand, I wandered into one of those little Asian import dollar stores filled with cheap housewares, weird shoes, and strange Asian-themed decor. It was like manna from fucking heaven. I got some socks with individual toes, I got some kick ass mary janes, and I got a reusable shopping bag because my chicobag is about to shit the bit and I gotta send that in to be recycled. I love my chicobag. If you don't have one, and you are still carrying around ANY OTHER KIND OF BAG you are wasting your time and simply not as cool as you could be. I love my chicobag with a crazy, sick passion. It is the first reusable bag that I actually get any use out of at all. It fits in my purse so that I actually do have it with me all the time, and I hooked it on to the zipper of my wallet, so that I REMEMBER TO USE IT which as we all know is at least 50% of the battle right there. So while this bag is just a cheap imitation, and only holds about half the stuff that my beloved chicobag will hold, it will suffice.

**And FYI I am not getting paid by chicobag to plug the hell out of them but if they want to send me a replacement bag they could totally do that and I would love them even more (if that is even fucking possible, which really - it's hard to imagine). It's about damn time I started getting something material out of writing this blog every day. Chicobag, you are already a groundbreaker......this is your chance for an encore. Rock it.

So after my adventures in imports, we went on down to Fisherman's Wharf and entered a sea of humanity the likes of which only exists in American cities at points of interest. There are tourists all over the world, but Americans take it to a whole new level. We ate some, we walked some, we enjoyed the lovely weather, and had just about all I can take of my fellow countrymen. Jesus, we are a strange, loud, and obnoxious group of folks. It was funny, we were standing at Pier 39 watching the sea lions, and all I kept thinking was how the people laughing and pointing and watcing and jostling for position were behaving EXACTLY LIKE THE SEA LIONS. Shoving and barking and climbing over each other and trying to go onto docks that were clearly marked private to find a better view or more space to spread out, and in general acting like the 500 pound beasts down below. Newsflash people - you do not live in a bubble. THERE ARE OTHER PEOPLE ON THIS PLANET WITH YOU. Nevermind the planet, actually, how about the fucking SIDEWALK. I am exhausted from trying to walk behind people that are completely oblivious to their surroundings, other then whatever has caught their eye and caused them to come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street/sidewalk/store/what have you and cause everyone else to also come to a screeching halt. Annoying, to say the least.

Now the kids are glazed over in front of Spongebob (gag) which is another lovely American institution that annoys the ever-loving SHIT out of me, so I am trying to get some news out to you. I have no idea how I am actually going to post this, I guess I'll carry my netbook with me tonight in a desperate attempt to log on. I am so glad my email comes to my phone so I don't have to worry about that. Seriously, I had no idea I was so internet dependent.................this is the worst detox ever........

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

"It's good to be the passenger" my husband said a few months ago, when we were talking about our relationship and financial responsibilities. He meant (I think) that it was nice to not have to make all of the decisions, to not have to make sure all of the bills were paid on time, to not have to wonder if there was clean underwear in the house. He enjoys the sharing of responsibilities, and not having to be in control and in charge all the time. He kind of likes being the passenger - he does his thing at work, comes home, and is a great daddy. He doesn't mind letting someone else take the wheel - literally and metaphorically.

It will come as NO SURPRISE TO ANYONE that I hate being the passenger.
Literally AND metaphorically.

Wait, that's not true, I don't hate it. It's just not my natural state, and I do not enjoy relinquishing control in any form........ergo I do not like being the passenger.

Lately, I have been the fucking passenger, and it is really starting to chafe.

Between my work situation - which is unpredictable - and summer vacation, where every minute is dictated by two kids who never leave my side, my life is not my own these days. Throw in my over-developed sense of obligation and responsibility and you have someone who spends every minute of every fucking day dealing with someone else's problems.

Last night was the penultimate straw, and let's just say it's a good thing I am getting off of this island because I don't know who's driving this thing, but my life is starting to make me carsick.

It all started with an email, asking me to host a vigil for the oil spill. I have friends who are being seriously affected by this, and I thought about it for a few hours, and asked a couple of friends, and then decided that yes, I would do it. No one else was stepping forward (apparently) and I live on an island, surrounded by beaches and ocean and it would really SUCK if we had an oil spill here and I was suddenly surrounded by oil. Me no likey.

So yes, a vigil. I emiled the press. I emailed some friends. I posted that thing on facebook every which way, and got some friends to do the same and it got to the point where we weren't sure who was coming, and how many there would be but it was OK we called in some extra bodies and prepared for the onslaught.

Of which there was none.
Seriously? About 5 people showed up.

So apparently, this oil spill does not concern the 2-3,000 people who got a notice on facebook.
What a relief.

Thank god we were having open mic night, and plenty of people showed up later on for music, which was great and I was relieved.

But in my efforts to be environmentally conscious, I had gotten a ride to work......and needed a ride home. One of my co-workers was happy to oblige.....I thought. But during the course of the ride he told me I was kind of, um, shrill I guess is the word. He didn't use that word - he waved his hands around his head and made a squealing noise - but I think the word he might have been looking for was shrill. And then I became overly-conscious of how much I was talking, and what I was saying, and I thought "oh my god, he's right, I am fucking OBNOXIOUS" and then I got all paranoid because he was driving really fast. I couldn't tell if he was just trying to get me home so I would get out of the fucking car and he could have some peace and quiet - but it was starting to feel that way. So I tried to shut up, and I clutched the door handle and I thought "Hm. Interesting how life works. I try to save on gas and not show up to an oil spill vigil I organized in an SUV, and then I get killed on the way home by a co-worker who is just trying to get me to shut me up already. I wonder how much oil and gas gets spilled in a really bad car acident involving a tree and an 86 Honda......"

And it turns out, someone else showed up to the vigil in a fucking Hummer, so I guess I really had nothing to worry about.

Monday, June 7, 2010

We have returned to single-dog status, and none of us could be happier. Especially Boston, which is ironic considering that we GOT a second dog because I thought he was lonely. And you know, maybe he was lonely. But then he maybe realized that being lonely is better then living with a bed-hogging, wood-eating donkey who shits everywhere and steals his food and jumps all over everyone to the point where NO ONE wants to play with the dogs EVER.

"Honey" Sam asked as he rubbed Bostons back yesterday while we all sat quietly in the sunshine. "Did you get a second dog just so I would finally learn to appreciate the first one? Because it TOTALLY WORKED. Boston is awesome."

Yes, sweetheart, that is EXACTLY what I did. It just took sacrificing the porch and the inside of my cargo area, and a year of shoveling massive amounts of dog shit (because seriously, Owen ate - ergo he shat - 3 times as much as Boston.)

So we are back to having one dog. One weird, goofy, sweet, cute dog that we adore more then ever.

Sunday, June 6, 2010

I have read a few different bloggers letters to their 21-year-old-selves. I didn't write one, because my 21-year-old-self was living in a fucking fantasy land.

No, seriously, I moved back to the Virgin Islands about a month after my 21st birthday. Fantasy Land.

Now, I say "moved back" because I had lived there before. And frankly, by the time I was 21, I was starting to get a handle on things, and it was pretty clear how badly I had fucked up my life and I didn't need a lecture.

But I also needed a good stiff kick in the pants. I was so focused on partying and working and "living in the now" that I was forgetting that I was still only 21, and I still had time to make some major life changes. To take some risks that didn't involve marriage and/or alcohol.

So here is my advice to my 21-year-old-self:

Travel. See the world. Take an internship somewhere AWESOME and stick it out and wait for them to offer you a paying gig. Live in a city. Alone. Think long-term. Follow your dreams, instead of chasing penis.Penii. boys. I mean, don't get me wrong - penis chasing moving from city to city because of relationships, as though I needed to be IN one in order to be validated, was a LOT OF FUN along the way. Furthermore, I do not regret marrying and settling down rather then trying to enjoy being single (WITHOUT spending the entire time looking for the next relationship). I don't like to think of living my life without my amazing husband and our kids, but........it might have been nice to actually see more of the world and work for a fashion magazine or a designer and follow my dreams a bit more then I followed the penispenii boyfriends.

So, there you have it. Do it for you, not for penis penii love.
My book of inspriational quotes should be published sometime next year.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

I got an award today, from one of my favorite Canadians. I don't know how you sleep at night with Sarah Palin living so close by, but now that she has built a fence I hope things have gotten better. I sure do appreciate your continued willingness to speak to the Americans. I don't know why, or how you remain so friendly and open-minded. I would have closed my borders years ago.

So here's to you, Ro ! Thanks for the award, and the comments. I am not what you would consider an award-winning blogger, but then.....I don't think I've ever given an award either. You gotta make some love to get some love. So thank you not only FOR the award, but for giving me an opportunity to pass it along to others :)

This award comes with the following rules:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award.
2. Share ten things about yourself
3. Pass the award along to 10 bloggers who you have recently discovered and who you think are fantastic!
4. Contact the bloggers and let them know you've picked them for the award.

OK, I am good at following step-by-step instructions. I should totally work at IKEA.

1. Thank you RO MAGNOLIA who's got the purtiest flowers and lives on a farm and has national health insurance. Bravo, you !

2. Share 10 things about yourself.
oh shit.
hm.

1. I write all the time, but never get paid. It's depressing, but true. I plan to turn that all around. At some point. I hope.
2. I really miss my father-in-law, who passed away right after I married my husband.
3. I am afraid to write about positive things that happen, in case I jinx myself. I'm sure you are laughing right now, because it certainly seems like I share EVERYTHING but I don't share much good stuff. And when I do, I knock wood. For days.
4. In the week or so leading up to a trip, I get really nervous and edgy. I woryy about traveling, about crashing, about how I'm going to pay for the trip....But once I am actually at the gate ready to leave, I relax immediately.
5. I have never, in my entire relationship with my husband, ever been attracted to another man. Or woman. I mean, I notice when they are attractive, but it's very un-emotional. It's just "Hm. Cute." and then I move on.
6. In my adult life I have gotten a new-to-me (and sometimes an honest to goodness new) car every year or two - sometimes several in one year. The reasons vary, sometimes it is because I drove my car into something, sometimes my car starts having issues and I don't want to deal with them so I trade it in, sometimes I just want something different. Convertibles, minivans, trucks, sub-compacts, SUVs, luxury cars....I've had 'em all ! The one I think I owned the longest was the BMW wagon. I loved that car.
7. Although I love living on Maui, I am really a city girl.
8. My ideal living situation would be spending January to August here on Maui, and living in NY or another big city for September to December.
9. I still have a lot of emotional baggage about my hysterectomy and infertility and sometimes I wonder if I'll ever get over it so I can whine about something else. It's getting kind of boring.
10. I can hold a grudge. Don't fucking fuck with me.

OK so now, 10 blogs.
Here's the thing.
I don't read a lot of blogs.
All the blogs I read are in my reader except for when someone comments. And like I said, that almost never happens. So this is going to be a shout out to those 10 most recent bloggers who take the time to give a shit and drop me a line. I thank you for keeping the dialogue alive, and letting me know that people actually read what I write.
First, of course Ro MagnoliaEllyRobinJamieAunt BeckyDamarisStar CakeLannedArcheobotNoonan
And Elisa

OK, now I shall go and contact bloggers/award recipients (I am such a GIVER) and then I am going to go get this award tattoed on my ass.
Pass this one on, people.

Sorry, last night I used my blog as my therapist - sometimes at 1am when you just can't sleep you have to do that sort of thing.
(Or you have to wake up your husband. Mine, while being a VERY compassionate and supportive man, frankly could give a shit less what issues are keeping me awake at 1am. Because you know what's keeping him awake at 1am? Me.)

So last night I took what amounts to a gigantic emotional dump right here in paradise.

I feel much better now. Lighter. I may have even gone down a pants size..

So now I can maybe get back to bitching about other stuff. Like derby, because Ro hasn't gotten any derby news in a while and the poor woman keeps coming here probably hoping in vain that I'll stop talking about my fucking dog and my touchy feely I'm so sad boo hoo bullshit. Canadians are very patient that way.

But here's the thing about derby. I haven't been to practice in forever. I have had to work almost every single practice, and then, when I didn't have work I actually wanted to spend a minute doing something with, oh I don't know, food. Coffee. Booze.

Exercise has not been high on the agenda. Partly because I am so exhausted, partly because exercise has NEVER been high on my agenda. But the end result is I have been off-skates for weeks and I am racked with guilt and probably wouldn't be whining about my parent's divorce TEN YEARS AGO GET OVER IT ALREADY YOU PUSSY if I was getting some exercise and maybe getting out some frustration along the way.

The thing about derby is, you really can get it all out on the track. Your team mates can pull you out of a funk with their hot pants and a new set of socks, or maybe if you're really lucky Sugarpop will wear her leotard to practice - which always seems to make me smile but then I have to call her Jane Fonda all day, so she might stop wearing it. If all else fails, they can throw you face first on the concrete so that you know what REAL problems are and quit your bitching about all of the little shit. Hard to be sad about that parking ticket or the long line at the bank or being 5 minutes late to work, when you just aren't sure when you are going to be able to take a deep breath again because you may or may not have cracked a rib by accident, or whether your shoulder is broken, dislocated, or perhaps the rotator cuff is torn? Hm, it's hard to know and then WOW you totally forgot about whatever the hell you have been whining about all day !

It's like getting rid of the hiccups. The more you think about it, the worse they get. But as soon as you get distracted enough, they disappear.

Hiccups make me fucking nuts. I hope I don't get the.........oh never mind.

Friday, June 4, 2010

No, I wasn't looking at photos of that horrific oil spill (I mean, I was, and I did stare at that in horror, but I am talking about after that.)

In fact, I was so stunned that I called my mother to see if she had heard the news.

Because as I read the headline, my heart was sinking. And I felt this overwhelming empathy for all involved. Because our family has been there. And it is just...........heartwrenching. And the immediate reaction was to call my mom. Whether to control how she heard, so that she didn't get the news in public, or in an attempt to break it to her gently, or just to gauge her reaction, I don't know.......but I picked up the phone right away.

"Mom, did you see? Al and Tipper Gore seperated."

"No." she exhaled. "It wasn't supposed to happen to them. They were going to make it."

"Yeah, well, notsomuch."

She went to go check the news out for herself, I sat down lost in my thoughts. I was filled with this overwheming desire to send the Gore kids a sympathy card.

My parents marriage ended in a very unpleasant way, after almost 30 years, and coincidentally it happened during the course of my engagement and wedding. The story is theirs to tell, and it is private. I have touched on it before, but I am not even going to go into it right now. The details aren't important. It was bad. It was ugly. It didn't have to be that way, but it was. And it left all of us rattled. I am sure my brothers, who were finishing up highschool and college during all of this, were affected - but I never really got a chance to sit down and talk with them about it - while it was happening, or afterwards when we were all afraid to poke the hornets nest by bringing it up. I had no idea what they were thinking, because I was right in the middle of it all. I heard everything. I had details. I knew too much. I watched it happen.

So when I saw that headline, all I could think was "I hope they keep it respectful, and I hope they keep it private." I don't mean private as in "out of the tabloids". I mean private as in "just between the two of them". A marriage is between two people, and divorce is between two people, and sharing the intimate details of either one with anybody except a paid professional is just not a great idea.

Trust me.
I knew too much.

I don't know if it would have been possible for me to be kept out of the loop. After all, a lot of the really bad stuff came about during a very emotional time, and during a time when there was a lot of communication about dates and plans and money and the future, and there were lengthy conversations about marriage. Mine and theirs. I didn't really get to sit around basking in the glow of newfound love. I was not the blushing bride. I was miserable, frequently sobbing into the phone, not sure if it would be better for them to stay together or split up. Knowing it was none of my business. And angry. I was very very angry. My parent's marriage was coming apart, why should I be getting married at all?

But I was getting married. At least, I was trying to. The divorce was affecting every aspect of my wedding from the budget to the guest list. The situation changed weekly. Daily. One bad phone call could set off a week of recriminations, calls going to voicemail, a silence that was deafening. I was quite sure that the last thing my mother felt like doing while her marriage was crumbling in front of her eyes, was to plan her daughter's wedding. So I muddled through. And that is what I remember.

My marriage was planned in the midst of a divorce.

Every time I hear about a couple who has split up after being married for a long time, I think about my parents, and my wedding. And the phone calls and the emotions - the raw and bleeding nerves that were exposed over and over again. I think about how Sam had wanted to propose, and had been waiting for my father to be around so he could ask him for my hand......and how after one of those horrible tearful middle of the night phone calls he decided that he didn't need that man's permission anymore, that my father obviously had no respect for the institution. So he proposed the next day, after I had called in sick to work, still hysterical that morning, after being up all night with Sami rubbing my back and trying to comfort me, or at least get me to stop crying long enough to sleep. I remembered how my mother made me put my father's name next to hers on my wedding invitations "Mr and Mrs requesting the pleasure of your company", even though I didn't want him there and wasn't sure if he would come. I think about picking out a wedding dress by myself. All alone in the bridal salon - I had called ahead and asked for an appointment at the beginning of the day before they were really "open" so I could avoid all of the mother/daughter shopping teams. I could see myself sitting at the kitchen table on my days off, sorting through menus and trying to choose a caterer, not knowing if we could even afford to feed our guests.

It was not an auspicious beginning, but in actuality it was probably the best way to go into a marriage. We were witnessing a worst-case scenario. We were reminded, daily, of what we were getting ourselves into. We had long and heated conversations about how if either one of us ever felt compelled to sleep with someone else, that we should immediately sit down and discuss whether we should stay married. That cheating and lying would not be tolerated. My husband felt that I was punishing him for things that someone else had done. I just wanted him to know that I would handle things differently then my parents were handling the current situation.

And that, right there, is the essence of this.

Divorce scares you. If someone can be married for 30 or 40 years and then split up.........FUCK. Who stays married, then? Why get married at all? You begin to question everything. Everyone. You want answers, you want to know WHY? And HOW? You want to find the reason. So you can avoid it yourself, so that you can prepare yourself. So you can do it differently. Better. Prevent it from ever happening, in fact.

But of course, if it happens to Tipper and Al, who practically made out onstage at the Convention just 10 years ago, who survived the near-death of child hit by a car right in front of them, who made it through years of campaigns and scandals and stress and triumph........they made it through everything the life threw at them.
Until now.
Until last week.
Until I turned on CNN and my stomach turned and my heart dropped and I sat and stared in disbelief, and then called my mom. Because when something ends after so long, it is only natural. I know too much about this sort of thing.

In one week I will be in San Francisco, eating chinese food and In-N-Out Burger.

Which means I have to limit my sodium consumption starting now. Just like every other damn vacation I go on, all I have planned is a long list of foods/restaurants/grocery stores and "must try" items. Culture schmulture. We'll do that after lunch ! And snack ! And cocktails ! And dinner ! And dessert ! And then eventually someone wipes my face with a cold cloth and we struggle back to the hotel at about 10pm all dirty and sweaty and smeared with cake, usually with BBQ sauce under our fingernails and MSG coursing through our system.

It's a rough life.

Today we get to go back to the clinic to get the kids' TB tests read and certified.
And then we get to come back to the house and walk the damn dogs.

Yes, there are still two of them. Yes, one of them is still that little bastard who ate my car. Twice. But at some point this weekend he will have a new and loving home on a big piece of land, with a neighbor dog to play with and fields to run in.

And Boston will be stuck with me. Just him-n-me. And the kids who chase him in circles. And the husband who frightens him so much that he (the dog, not the husband) pisses on the porch everytime he (the husband, not the dog) gets too close. I have no idea what his previous owners did to him, but poor old Boston is a mess. And so he gets to stay and be a nutty little freak. He fits right in.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Even though both kids have had TB tests we have to do them again to start this new school. Or at least, there seems to be confusion about whether we need to do it or not, so I made an appointment and we are going down to the clinic today. Hopefully, we can skip the whole test and get certificates showing that they already HAD a TB test, and that will be good enough.

But I am prepared for the worst.

Lucy has this issue with shots. She's not scared, she doesn't scream and fight and kick and have to be restrained.

It is way worse then that.

She looks at me, through the tears, as though I am sending her to the executioner. Her eyes say "I thought you were supposed to protect me" and she slowly lifts her arm obediently for the nurse.

It's like fucking Sophie's Choice every time she needs a shot.

She does cry, and squirm, and as the alcohol is swabbed on her arm she begs for a reprieve...but I can deal with all of that. What I CANNOT deal with is the guilt. And then the days that follow the shot, when she refuses to remove the bandaid, because then she won't be able to remember where the shot was, and what's the fun of THAT really?

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Next week, I am doing another one of those trips to the mainland without my husband. One of those terribly ill-conceived plans that I come up with late at night or when I see cheap airfare. Since my husband is not coming along, I have an alternate. A side-kick for the airplane. I would call her a wingman but even I'M not that punny. Plus, she's got tits, so clearly NOT A MAN AT ALL. She is taking one of the monkeys and I am taking the other and we will will sit near each other but not next to each other and perhaps the children might even sleep if we give them enough Benadryl. (I'm just joking. I would never drug my children for a red eye flight. Until now.)

So I am taking the kids to SF and I have very little planned, aside from a ride in one of those trolley-things where I will attempt to keep all arms, legs and heads inside the trolley car. But let's be realistic, that is probably not going to happen. We all know I am going to be hanging off the side of that thing hooting and squealing and clutching my hat to my head.

Photo Op.

Anyway, we are going there for 4 days, which seems like a VERY LONG TIME INDEED.

And after I ride the trolley and find an In n Out Burger and eat some decent chinese food, I will be just about out of ideas. I think we are going to Noe Valley to check out some slides that are made out of concrete and may or may not require a trip to the emergency room and Xanax. (Both for me - I am quite clumsy and very nervous).

Because I will have the children, I cannot go straight to the Lusty Lady - which is unfortunate because it is one of my very favorite fun places to go and laugh and laugh and laugh. I still have their sticker in the shape of a cat, that I peeled off the window of my last car. "The Lusty Lady (because everyone needs a little pussy)".
There really is just nothing classier then a Volvo, with 2 carseats in the back, and that sticker on the rear window. Timeless. And located right next to the giant red hot dog with a pin-up girl astride it, saying "Eat Me".

All of this is to say that I will be needing your suggestions for APPROPRIATE things to do with my children while in the city. As clearly, I cannot be left to my own devices or you will find us shoving quarters in the slot at the peep show, eating questionable hot dogs, and hurtling head-first down concrete slides on pieces of cardboard that I have pulled from a dumpster.